Legacies of the Fallen
by Marohi
Summary: During the construction of the Ocean Palace, a Zealian Nobleman is thrown twenty years forward in time where he learns his kingdom is no more; A work in progress.
1. Prologue

Standard Disclaimer: _Chrono Trigger_ and _Chrono Cross_ are property of Squaresoft; I've just been a huge fan of these games since they came out. ) Characters, Storyline elements, and other additional things not in the original games were created by Jasson Scott Knight. Please do not use any of them without my permission. Thanks! 

Author's Note: _Legacies of the Fallen_ is an Original Fanfic; very few of the characters from _Chrono Trigger_ and _Chrono Cross_ are and will be present, but rather a completely new team of adventurers. This story is rated PG13 to R due to vulgar and adult language, gore and violence, and adult situations - so if you're sensitive to that kind of stuff, you've been forewarned. This is also a work in progress, so expect things to change as the story evolves.

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Legacies of the Fallen  
By Jasson Knight 

_**

**Prologue**  
--------------  
-: No Man's Land :-

_Darkness settles on roofs and walls,  
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;  
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,  
Efface the footprints in the sands,  
And the tide rises, the tide falls._

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

High above the dark, towering cliffs of volcanic rock, the sky burned as though it had been painted with blood and fire. In the distance, sea birds soared until they were nothing but flecks in the brightening sky and vivid ribbons of lightning danced upon the black clouds boiling on the horizon.

_There had been a certain, captivating simplicity to the Queen's idea. The very idea of a glorious, sprawling palace sheltered from the vicious, eternal blizzards by the deep, serene ocean was intriguing. They would be tapped directly into the inexhaustible power of Lavos. With the energies of this almighty being, they would finally ascend to Zeal's proper role as the center of the universe.  
_

The storm was calling to him as it buffeted off the rocks of this condemned and broken shore. It spoke to him in tongues now lost, as though they were releasing what power they had used to bring him to this point.

It was as though Gavesin Ishon's world had turned to ice. Sounds coming in to him faintly, distantly, as though they had to reach him through whatever substance prevented him from moving.

_Gloved hands raised high, eyes shut behind identical, insulated masks, heavy robes swirling about them, they called upon their powers of water and wind. In perfect concert, the great ring of Zealian sorcerers pushed and prodded at the angry ocean they floated above. _

At first the seas resisted; whitecaps rearing high like outraged white stallions and striking at them with spray that turned instantly to diamond dust. It was not within its nature to obey the whims of man, but the mages were patient and persistent. It churned and roared, swirling as they plunged a massive wall of energy downward until it struck the ocean floor.

The red dawn abruptly changed to violet twilight as fevered dreams wove themselves with memories and his knowledge of his present state until it smeared into something he could no longer distinguish. The winds increased, violently lashing him with ice and snow only to eerily die as another red dawn rose. The part of him that was trained as a healer remained strangely sane despite the madness that had come over him, but yet contributed to the hallucinations with its insipid catalogue of his injuries and symptoms thereof. In moments of clarity, Gavesin waited for the dragonfly shaped shadow of the Blackbird to arrive, to carry him away from this worm-eaten reality and return him back to his warm world of books and scrolls high above the clouds. He thought that he should be able to see the floating continents through this strange break in the eternal blizzard that had raged for aeons.

It was a sudden surge of indignant fury that returned enough sanity for him to turn his head enough to gaze across the rock he laid prone on. Blood - His blood! - was swiftly cooling on the rocks he laid on; but, it was the ridiculous, languid notion that he had ruined his expensive robes and cloak.

He knew he was going to die. And that infuriated him.

He was the eldest nephew of the Queen! The only one related to her by blood, not through her late husbands! It was becoming apparent to him that those fools were going to let him die like one of the Earthbound ones!

_Thunder clapped as they gestured harshly to their right, sending the wall spiraling. Unable to resist any further, the water too began to spin. As the speed increased, a depression formed in the center and began to creep ever deeper. _

The Tidal Lords of Zeal reacted instantly, descending little by little as they compelled the water at the boundaries of their huge whirlpool beyond their magical wall.

When he once more regained consciousness, Gavesin felt himself floating, light upon the air like a feather on a breeze. He no longer felt the need to shiver, as though air had warmed considerably. Perhaps he had been found or perhaps hypothermia had finally taken him.

He stared dreamily at the gleaming crescent of metal that had appeared above him as it reflected a dizzying kaleidoscope of his surroundings.

And far beyond that, was the distant shadow of a dragonfly shaped form.

--------------

_13 May, 611AD  
Guardia Castle, The Kingdom of Guardia_

Leander Nikarah could be a patient man.

In fact, he prided himself on his persistence and fortitude. His former instructors had frequently commented that he was one of the most diligent youths they had ever taught. He had never once lost his temper, nor given up at anything. He had taken every taunt, every slight, and every injury brought down upon him by his peers with the dignity of a veteran soldier being given a sharp dressing down by his commanding officer. Never once, had his patience faltered.

Truth be told, ever since the Commander of the Guardian Knights had appeared on his mother's doorstep eleven years ago to offer His Majesty's condolences for his father's death during the Battle of the Zenan Bridge, he had needed every drop he could muster.

However, nothing can last forever.

It had been a quiet, Spring evening the day Nikarah's patience finally broke. Most of the Knights had been relaxing down in the Knight's Quarters that eve, enjoying a much deserved respite. It had been over a decade since the Mystic Army had been repelled in the Battle of Zenan and over the years the army had fractured into smaller, rebel bands that were easily routed. The week before, the Knights of Guardia had soundly defeated the largest guerrilla unit in a bloody encounter south of the Denodoro Mountains. Since then, the rest of the Mystics had gone quiet. The Knights knew they were planning something, but experience had taught them not to waste valuable energy worrying. Their strength was the reason why Guardia was currently the most powerful nation in the known world.

The General of Guardia's Military Forces, a gentle man by the name of Glenn Ornata, had been playing chess with Aiken Garson, the Commander of the Knights of the Square Table. A promising young knight named Gideon, who had been knighted on the same day as Leander, had been watching them intently; calculating their moves as closely as he did when they were planning for battle while he prepared for his usual patrol of the parapets.

They had sensed something was wrong when Leander Nikarah stalked in. He wandered the hall aimlessly for a time before coming to stand before the fire near the three Knights' table. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, hands quaking, every visible muscle taut as he sucked in a few trembling breaths. He muttered something to himself that went unheard before he began pacing like a caged lion, his eyes rolling in an almost bestial fashion to take in the expansive room. The General and his Commander both rose as one, Gideon rising a moment later at their cue, a horrible feeling taking root in the pits of their stomachs.

Nonetheless, before they could take another step, Leander turned on the table next to them like a rabid beast. A veteran soldier's chest had been laid open from navel to sternum before the stroke was reversed to neatly cleave through another soldier's arm. As the soldier reeled and backpedaled, Nikarah swept in and laid his belly open.

As Glenn closed on the berserk Knight, Leander had turned and lashed out in a wild, horizontal stroke that caught Gideon in the neck. Gideon's mail resisted the slash, but the force had been too great. His neck snapped cleanly with a wet crackle and he crumpled to the floor, his face locked in a expression of shock.

Glenn drove in hard, battering the rogue knight away from the fallen men.

Leander's sword shrieked as the metal succumbed to the power of the older swordsman's attack. Even before the sheared off blade had finished its fall, the General had pivoted and ducked under his guard to smash the hilt of the legendary Masamune sword to Leander's skull.

The Knight dropped like a stone, his rampage over as quickly as it had begun.

And so, on the Thirteenth day of May of the Six Hundred-Eleventh year of the Lord and exactly three weeks to the day since he was Knighted, Leander Nikarah was about to be court-martialed and stripped of his titles.

There was little doubt he would be executed.

Part of him wanted to believe that Leander had been under the influence of something insidious, but in retrospect, Glenn - once known simply as "Frog" - painfully came to the realization that he probably should have been expecting it. There had always been something eerily familiar about him, yet he had never been able to put his finger on it.

Within his cell, the young man's posture and carriage was that of a man already dead. His head was bent, his face obscured by a fall of ginger hair sticking out above and below a circlet of soiled bandages. His clothes had been taken from him, leaving only a pair of thin, knee length breeches of dark homespun and a bronze medallion as his only coverings. His breath wafted from his nose and mouth in clouds, yet he wasn't shivering. The round medallion hung motionless in the hollow of his sternum like a yoke of lead. From the gleaming, bronze disk gazed a wizened, benevolent face formed of Oak leaves and surrounded by knotwork and small, raised circles. It had once seemed to be possessed of a primal wisdom to Glenn, yet today the face looked vapid and jaded.

Glenn nodded to the Knight Captain; the door yawned wide, bathing the man within with light from the torches behind them. He lifted his head slowly, piercing both men with baleful, red-rimmed, and bloodshot eyes.

A chill ran down Glenn's spine as the gaze hardened as they fixed on the Knight Captain. The last time he had seen eyes that cold was on a bright, sunny day over twenty years ago. He had been a youth then, a skinny whelp of seventeen who had just watched his best friend die.

No sooner than he remembered that then the eerie feeling solidified. He realized that had his hair been cerulean rather than auburn, Leander could have been a clone of his former nemesis, Magus. His history, his dedication to being the best, his rage and his sorrows, everything eerily matching the wizard's story like a distorted mirror. Dread rose from deep within Glenn's stomach. Was he gazing upon the next Magus?

As though sensing his thoughts, the stubble around Leander's mouth flexed and became darker in places as his lips curled scornfully.

"Leander Nikarah," The Commander began without preamble. Glenn had no idea how he could keep his voice so even. "Your trial will begin in exactly one hour. I have been commanded to enter your statement to the Court. How will you plead?"

"Guilty." Leander stated with a dismissive air, his lack of remorse making him seem ever more like his archenemy.

"Art thou mad?" Glenn bristled, holding back the fine tremor that wanted to run up his spine. He struggled to form the proper words around an accent grown thick with rage. "Hold thine tongue; this tis no jest! Three men died by thine own hands!"

"They had it coming."

The green haired man sputtered, his eyes going wide. His trembling hand reached for his sword, but Commander Garson laid a callused hand on his arm to restrain him. His voice was calm as he regarded the man impassively, "Do you realize that you're expected to be executed? Hung or beheaded, most likely."

His eyes moved from the Knight Captain's to Glenn's own azure eyes. His pale lips twitched into a wan smile, his voice that of a man attempting to explain a difficult concept to a small child, "Everyone dies, Commander. Nothing lives forever."

However, a voice from the past seemed to be whispering to him through the ages from Leander's steady, deep voice. It was the voice of another man, who had been condemned by fate... one who had nearly brought Guardia its knees. _"Idiots... nothing can live forever..."_


	2. Echoes

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Legacies of the Fallen

_**  
By Jasson Knight

**Chapter One  
**--------------  
-: Echoes :-

_09 November, 11980BC  
The Lower Caverns of Orchid Grotto; Fjords of Dun Teoddry_

He had just finally managed to slip into a fitful doze when he was awakened yet again by the boom and crash of heated rock and surging water. The swordsman groaned and squeezed his eyes tighter shut, refusing to open them to see what was happening. He knew from smell alone that the geyser three floors down had erupted again, discharging superheated, sulfurous water up into the corridors. The stench was unmistakable by now, as was the sudden spike in the already oppressive heat. It happened like clockwork every twelve hours unless he risked a trip down to disrupt the cycle.

At this moment, wisps of fog would be curling under the heavy, marble doors and the passageways beyond would be choked with acrid plumes of hot gases. Nearly imperceptible currents of air would be disturbing the leaves and petals of the strange, bioluminescent orchids that grew most everywhere to create a dizzying light show across the walls. Shortly, whirlwinds of living steam would begin to vainly but methodically test his Wards before their scalding bodies cooled and turned back to water that would creep back to the geyser of its own accord. Elsewhere, bizarre crustaceans with meaty tails and a pair of fleshy, saw-toothed, elastic, mouth stalks on their backs would skitter out of their hiding places to feast on anything that crossed their path. In the deepest regions, the angry spirits of the long-dead keepers of this place stirred in their watery graves as they dreamed of Zeal in its halcyon days.

Years ago, the swordsman known as Cináed Marohi had been dispatched by the Prophet of Zeal with the enchantress, Lazuli, and the magician, Saturnus to explore this place thoroughly and report back. Thanks to that mission, he knew this stifling hell almost as well as he knew his own home. It was a strange mix of buildings from the lost city of Kajar and ancient, natural caverns that had been carved out over the eons by water and magma. Somehow, they had perfectly blended into a network that extended deep into the planet and outward below the surface for countless leagues. Being the only surviving nephew of the late Queen, Marohi had been confident he could explain most anything he could come across. However, he was still at a loss to explain much about what they had found here.

The loss of life from the disaster had been catastrophic, but yet he kept finding seemingly fragile items - such as things made from glass or porcelin - completely intact. Walls were still plumb in many places and there were several notable rooms where the floors were still level. In some areas brick or marble seamlessly connected to the natural stone as though it was merely a veneer plastered over the existing stonework. Quite a few tapestries bearing the Royal Crest still hung from their standards - although torn, stained, and sometimes worm eaten.

This room was yet another of those things he couldn't account for. It had originally been a place of healing; a facility in Kajar where those with powerful healing magicks and advanced knowledge of how the body functioned came to study and practice their craft. It had remained like that until Lavos had been discovered, at which point this place had been rendered obsolete. The displaced healers had been forced to learn new skills and most had chosen the large-scale manipulation of water. Cináed had vivid memories of this place from when he was a child and knew anyone could have entered at any time. However, now it was the most secure room in this entire tunnel complex and was easily made impenetrable by even the simplest of shielding spells.

It was because of this feature that had caused him to venture back inside after so many years.

He and his little cousin, Jacoris, had been on their way to the village of Meriddea from the fortress town of Black Harbor. The price for passage on a ship had been ludicrous for a city only a week north on foot. However, about halfway there and while traversing the boulder-strewn tundra, a fierce and rather typical November squall had blown in from the sea. Desperate, he had brought his cousin here for shelter. Cináed was beginning to regret his decision, though - but at the time, hiding inside a dank, sticky hole had been preferable to being outside in that tempest.

As he miserably slouched deeper into his chair, sodden fur slapped the bare skin of his forearm as his dog rushed to his feet with a sudden scraping of toe-nails to bark ferociously in the direction of the door as something skittered loudly in the distance.

"Easy, Diablo..." He muttered unenthusiastically and reached for the animal's collar. "Diablo -?" He groped blindly in the air for his pet, but his sweat-soaked hand came up with nothing.

Cináed's only answer was a deep, resounding growl and the scrape of a paw against the door.

With an expressive sigh, he cracked his eyes open into the watery gloom of the ruined chamber. His eyes flicked over Jacoris' slight form still sleeping restlessly in the middle of the floor before returning his attention to his pet. Besides his dog barking, everything else was fine.

For all his impressive size and power, normally Diablo was disgustingly timid; Cináed could generally count on nothing but cowardice from the large canine. It completely flew in the face of his initial impression of that tiny puppy with the enormous bark he used to be. However, he'd learned from past experience that the presence of his cousin sparked a complete revolution in Diablo's behavior.

"Diablo, come." He said firmly, snapping his fingers and pointing down at his side in one smooth motion.

But the animal had it in its mind that the twelve-year-old needed protecting and had developed a severe case of selective hearing. He was digging now, his large paws chocolate and silver blurs as he impotently tried to tunnel through the brick floor to rip whatever was on other side of the door to shreds.

Cináed sighed once more and pushed the long, soggy cobalt strands of his bangs out of his eyes. He finally sat up and took his feet off the ancient stone table before him.

"Diablo! Come!" He barked, repeating the finger snap but the point to the spot next to him was far more emphatic.

However, at that moment whatever was on the other side of the entry chose to reach through the gap under the door with a long, purplish, and crab-like pincher to snap at Diablo's furiously digging paws. The dog ceased it's effort briefly to snarl and bark thunderously at whatever it was.

"Diablo, if that thing gets a grip on you - you're going to regret it." Marohi futilely warned the dog as he pulled his waterlogged boots back on. Diablo snarled and pounced at the claw as it protruded into the room again, trying his best to bite it before the creature retracted it once more. "Diablo, damnit, leave that thing alone!"

_'That dumb dog doesn't know when to quit.'_ He thought irritably as he hauled himself to his feet and crossed the room in long, squishy strides. As he neared the door, his already bloodshot eyes began to sting yet again from the vapors still curling out of the seam. He caught the water-stained collar just as Diablo lunged with a snarl at the protruding claw once more and hauled the dog backwards with all his weight.

It took every ounce of his strength to haul his dog away and even more to hold him long enough to hook his chain into his collar. Even so, he managed to severely pinch his index finger in the clasp of the chain as Diablo lunged forward against the restraint.

Peppering the air with curses, Cináed shook his hand out and sucked on the offended digit. Oh, the Prophet would owe him for this pleasant, little excursion. He enjoyed most any excuse to spend time with his cousin, but between the squall outside and the questionable shelter in here, his patience was sorely tried.

In the meantime, Diablo was still barking ferociously at the door and the claw was still reaching under the bottom of the marble gateway. Enough was enough. Darkly, Cináed removed his bleeding finger from his mouth and stalked back over to his chair to retrieve the largest of his two swords.

He placed his back against the stationary, left door and rested his hand on the right, his gray eyes never leaving the crab-like claw once more probing the space under the door. Cináed had just taken his deep breath in preparation to attack when a groggy whine came from the middle of the room, "Cini, what's Dee-Bee barking at _now_?"

"Another of those crab things," Marohi grunted, rocking back on his left foot. "Stay put."

And with that he gave the door a hard shove and ducked around it. His shelding spell automatically slammed it shut behind him.

The crab creature was startled at first. It skittered swiftly backwards with that same chittering noise it had made before. Cináed moved carefully, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet as its mouth-stalks bobbed weirdly, air hissing from them as it tasted the air. He knew it could smell his blood.

Then it charged him.

His training kicked in, pivoting out of the reach of the creature's nearest mouth even as his sword swept down to deflect the attack. The same movement reversed itself, the blade turning to present the edge to the creature's flesh. Ichor bloomed and then was dripping from the naked steel as the toothy appendage fell to the water at his feet. Behind him came a heavy, grinding noise as the door opened slightly.

A lucky jump backwards avoided one pincher, but left him open briefly for the next. It caught him in the side of his stomach and twisted.

Cináed cursed and swept it off with a wild slash that also sliced off a section of its shell. He ripped the pincher free with a snarl and began to mutter the words to a spell. As though sensing his intentions, the crab creature began to make a gurgling sound. Ominous green liquid began to drip from the remaining mouth.

A high, youthful shout stopped it; flashes of white-gold brilliance buzzed and crackled, exploded and screamed.

It spat its venom blindly at the heart of the light, crackling where it touched the searing bands of lightning magic. Cináed snatched the small arm even before the spell was finished and wrenched it to him as hard as he could.

The swordsman narrowed his eyes as the creature reeled, blinded by Jacoris' _Strobe_ spell. Safely behind him, the young blond was panting, his eyes wide in his pale face.

He slowly began to raise his hand, a pillar of red light briefly shining around him as he invoked his innate powers from his Element Grid. Bloody light shrouded his right hand and pulsed from deep within. He felt his cousin back away in instinctive fear as the burning, crimson light grew until the silhouette of his bones stood out sharply.

With a flick of his hand, the damage was done. The creature's body convulsed violently and it's eyestalks bulged an instant before they popped. It rolled onto it's back, its legs twitching before they curled up against it's body.

Marohi blew a sigh and rubbed his hand through his cousin's hair affectionately before dropping his arm around his thin shoulders. Jacoris shot him a triumphant grin in return, but their celebration was short lived as a eerie, sibilant noise echoed from the direction of the broken staircase leading deeper into the darkness.

The swordsman inhaled sharply and gave his cousin a shove towards the doors. "In - in - in - in - in - IN!" He chanted rapidly, "Get in!"

His cousin was squeezing through before the door was even truly wide enough to admit him. Cináed saw Jacoris trip out of the corner of his eye, but he was already swinging inside himself while yanking the door shut. As the heavy marble ground over the floor, something rammed it with enough force to slam it closed and to knock Cináed completely off his feet and into Jacoris.

The swordsman rolled sideways, hurriedly untangling himself from his cousin and rose into a crouch, brandishing the heavy weapon in preparation for an attack. However, his shielding spell was holding. The doors were only grinding tighter shut with each volley. Wordlessly, Cináed half turned and pulled Jacoris back to his feet. The boy backed away and there was the noise of steel emerging from its sheathe.

He was back a moment later. Cináed dropped his gaze briefly to see the grip of his lighter, double-edged sword being offered to him. He took it and shifted into a relaxed guard stance.

For several long minutes they listened to the steam creatures pound on the doors and Marohi's spell.

"Y'know what, Cini?" Jacoris muttered breathlessly from behind him.

"Hmm?"

"I don't like it here much."

The swordsman nodded as something particularly large hit the wards and shook the entire chamber. His cousin inhaled sharply and jumped closer to him. Behind them, Diablo was nearly beside himself with agitation.

However, the pounding was weakening in intensity and becoming less frequent while the hissing had deepened to angry burbles and loud belches. One final strike thudded weakly against the marble before the angry, wet noises faded into the distance.

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_01 September, 612AD  
The Denodoro Mountains, Kingdom of Guardia_

Indian summer had descended upon the shoulders of the Denodoro Mountains, transforming them to a place like those in fairy-tales. The peaks stood with their backs to the ocean, the legendary winds stirring limb and leaf as they climbed the rocky crags. The aromas of wild lilies, lavender, and sage hung elusively like a lady's perfume on the omnipresent wind. Among dappled beams of hazy sunlight delicate tufts of Cotton Ester fluff swirled and tumbled like troupes of dancing fairies.

Seldom did anyone venture this deep into the mountains; and, if they did, they never lingered for long. Tales of marauding bands of Mystics were still used to warn children and unwary adventurers away from delving too far down the shrouded, verdant trails. Goblins and Ogans, while generally non-confrontational, were still often provoked into attacking by the malicious, bird-like Freelancers. Apparitions in the form of ethereal, veiled maidens had become notorious for luring unsuspecting men to their doom. Additionally, over the last year, another creature had been added to the list of creatures to be avoided. Rumored to be an Ogre, it was known to attack and even kill Mystics and Humans indiscriminately and robbing them of anything of value they might be carrying. Those who had survived their encounters with the brute could never agree on whether they saw a very large, human bandit or a ruthless giant.

Had anyone asked him his preference, that would be exactly as the very human Highwayman would have wanted things.

It had been a year since Leander Nikarah had made his audacious escape from the dungeons of Guardia Castle. Since then, he had almost continually prowled the road from the Zenan Bridge to Porre and back again. The gains from the travelers he harassed had easily kept his belly full and coin-pouch heavy. The news of his escape had made him infamous; the report that the enormous and heavily armored bandit was a Mystic had allowed him to travel incognito after taking the time to don civilian garb.

His Falchion made but the barest noise as he rested its point on the boulder before him. Leander leaned on the pommel, the black leathers of his jerkin and boots creaking softly as bent far forward over the stone to put himself lower to the ground.

The blade was of a foreign design; too small to be a proper short sword but too long to be a dagger, but it was his preferred weapon nonetheless. It was versatile and compact, light enough to be wielded with blinding speed in melee combat but its point was strong enough to breach the even Kingsweave with a lone, hard thrust. For times when he was pressed to heavy combat he switched to a double-edged long sword he had found in a cave deeper in the mountains.

In the gully before him, a solitary Freelancer looked around cautiously and began unpacking the earnings from his day of banditry. The southern road to the mountain town of Sandorino was treacherous at best even without his help and travelers were frequently plagued by teams of the little beasts. The renowned winds of the western range had virtually faded, but Sandorino was still a tourist's haven. The Bazaar alone was still celebrated for its selection of wares from throughout the world and their luxurious Inn was still highly profitable.

Thus, like lambs leading themselves to the slaughter, unarmed travelers continued to risk the road for a visit to the little town.

From within the blackness of his hood, Leander's mouth twitched wryly as the little bird-man pulled a Vigil Hat from its sack. He stroked his newly grown beard thoughtfully with a hand sheathed in a heavy glove and mittened gauntlet. It was an odd bit of swag where the Freelancers were concerned. They were generally poor judges of worth; often taking worthless trinkets while leaving the real items of worth behind. To them, if a thing was shiny or brightly colored, it was priceless. Vigil Hats were rare and exquisite finds, but they weren't much to look at. For a Freelancer to have taken it, its former owner must have inadvertently tipped it off to the Hat's worth.

The former Knight brought one foot up to rest on the rock and leaned on his knee, gazing intently at his target. Impatient, he absently twirled his Falchion a couple times before sheathing it under his massive vest made from the shaggy, mossy green pelt of a great beast. He knew better than to attack too early. Their name notwithstanding, Freelancers seldom traveled alone and generally appeared in pairs. To attack before the partner appeared could bring him more trouble than even a Vigil Hat was worth. He was a powerful and superior swordsman, but he was no match for a full garrison of magic-wielding, rebel Mystics.

The rest of the Mystic's loot was relatively worthless as far as he was concerned. There were a few vases, some odd pieces of costume jewelry, a mirror, plenty of coin, a matched pair of silver candlesticks, and a strange, girdle-like object with shiny, bronze buckles that looked suspiciously like a chastity belt.

Nikarah backed away from his boulder and crouched low in the grass. If it had one, the Freelancer's partner should have appeared by now. Only the top of the Mystic's hood was visible from his vantage point, but any part of the creature's body counted towards keeping it in sight. He tossed the liripipe of his hood over his shoulder and began to steal down the embankment.

The Freelancer was back to examining the Vigil Hat, turning it over and regarding its murky reflection in the dull, metal visor. It clacked its beak and chattered something unintelligible, blinking its dark, lustrous eyes at the Freelancer in the helmet.

He drew his Falchion and poised himself for the charge. As though sensing him, the Freelancer froze stock-still, its beak slightly open.

Something wasn't right.

Leander decided he would need to kill it in a single strike before it had a chance to summon reinforcements.

He crept forward one more step.

"Now!" The Freelancer screeched in a shrill, feminine voice and flattened itself to the ground.

Arrows rained upon the glade with the suddenness of a squall. Bolts clanged dissonantly off the shield he still had strapped to his back and grazed the fur of his vest.

He covered his head with his hands and sprinted back up the hill to dive behind his boulder. Arrows scraped across the stone like a swarm of foul insects and clattered impotently over the protective steel of his gauntlets.

"Halt!"

The rain of missiles ceased and he could hear many armored footsteps approaching the glade where the "Freelancer" had been. Indeed, through a tiny opening he was able to peek around the rock to see the young maiden begin slipping out of the intricate disguise behind a protective ring of Knights.

"Leander Nikarah! We have you surrounded!"

"There's no way out!"

"Like hell..." Leander muttered calmly and sarcastically under his breath and began stealing backwards, keeping the boulder between himself and the Knights below. He had to give them credit for the ruse, but they didn't know these mountains like he did.

"By the order of King Guardia the Twenty-first -" Garson was shouting once more, his voice drowning out the skitter of pebbles as Leander slid unhurriedly down the rock-face behind him and allowed himself to be swallowed by the mossy green leaves of a gigantic Denodoro Fern halfway down. The velvety soft fronds enveloped him and whispered across his back and across his vest as he gently slid deeper into the plant.

At the sound of a snapping twig and the sound of armor shifting, he braced a foot against one of the thick, rigid lower stems and froze.

Very near, he could hear soft panting and wheezing as a man struggled up the slope. The Knight skirted the Fern and paused just above it, a crossbow armed and held at ready. Sweat trickled down his spine as the Knight stepped on a bad patch of rock and was forced to pinwheel his arms to maintain his balance.

_That would be a tale, eh?_ He thought as a bubble of hysteria floated up from the pit of his stomach, _The infamous Leander Nikarah dying to a crossbow misfire when an idiot tripped over his own bloody feet..._

However, the man regained his balance and paused to catch his breath. He blew a deep sigh of relief and then began to creep up the rise once more.

Then there was a bellow and the twang of the crossbow followed by a stupefied silence.

"He's gone!"

The Highwayman rolled his eyes and turned slowly around while still within the enormous fern. He turned and darted swiftly down to throw himself into the cover of some dense scrub, allowing the shouting of the Knights behind him to drown out the noise of his retreat.

"- Do not stop until you find him! The butcher must not escape!!" Birds screamed in surprise and leaped skyward as the Commander's roar echoed thunderously across the mountain.

But his quarry was growing ever further away, loping away at a comfortable run and occasionally ducking into the cover of the ubiquitous foliage and naked rock endemic to the Denodoro Range. He had no plans of stopping until he was deep into the eastern range and even then until he reached some ruins he'd found while exploring the relatively uncharted region.

The forest ran into an emerald haze as he dashed between the trees, struggling up and down steep slopes, sporadically stopping to erase his tracks or doubling back on himself to confuse his trail. His breath soon began to burn in his lungs and a stitch formed in his side, but he kept moving.

The sun was setting when he finally reached the mist covered ruins he had sought for most of the day. The pale, weathered stonework and half-decayed marble rose majestically into the canopy overhead; awesomely old yet bearing little sense of frailty. The structure had the air of a place forgotten by time, defeated by the crawl of eons yet possessing a dignity and poise that remained undaunted.

Additionally, while he didn't feel in any way threatened, he often felt like he was being watched. These unseen, ghostly watchers hung just out of sight, danced at the edges of his vision, and spoke to him in the limbo between sleep and wake. He felt he knew where they stood - at times, he was certain he would run into one of them should he swing too quickly around a corner.

Today was no different when he finally stumbled inside. He could feel these unseen, silent beings turn to watch him, as if welcoming his arrival as though he was a king returning to his court. The former Knight was breathing heavily as he sat down upon the smooth, veined stones of the floor and leaned back against the wall. He drew his hood off and smoothed his sweat soaked hair away from his face. When he could breath easier, he shrugged the straps of his pack off his shoulders and pulled it open. It only took him a second to locate his canteens and a packet of smoked fish from one of the many nearby rivers. He fumbled one container open and proceeded to dump the cool, fresh water over his face and head with a gratified moan.

This part of the Denodoro was a mass of labyrinthine canyons, caverns, deep valleys, and breathless peaks. Game was plentiful and the water untainted; the ruins provided a sturdy shelter against the elements including the ferocious Denodoro winds and the sudden storms they could summon.

He grinned in spite of himself at the thickening fog, those same currents were drawing a cloud up from the cooler ocean; when it reached the peak it would become a violent tempest that would plummet like an avalanche down the western peaks. The Guardians would be forced to give up their search in lieu of a desperate, headlong search for refuge.

Leander lifted his second canteen to his lips and took several deep gulps of the cool water within. When he had drained it of every drop, he let it fall beside him. Now that he was safe, he was feeling lethargic. His flight from the Knights had drained him and right now his body screamed for rest rather than the food he knew he needed. After eating a couple mouthfuls of fish, he climbed slowly to his feet, painfully hauled his pack over one shoulder, and wearily tottered deeper into the ruins to sleep. His muscles were already cramping from his long run and the rest of him begged for sleep - he was more than happy to oblige.

He didn't know how long he had slept when he was awoken unexpectedly. The half-light of early dawn was fighting its way through the gravid rain-clouds and through the gloom of the sleeping forest. The ruins were silent as usual save for the trickles of water from a broken fountain back closer to the entrance and the steady rain falling outside. Even so, something seemed definitely amiss. Leander held himself perfectly still, listening intently.

He was almost ready to give up and go back to sleep when the eerie sound of a child sobbing became louder, more persistent. He felt gooseflesh raise on his arms knowing it was highly unlikely that a child would be here in the Eastern Range. There were two native creatures, on the other hand, who could mimic the sound of a child or baby crying or a woman screaming - neither were something he wanted to come across. The felines were vicious, unrelenting hunters well adapted to the mountains and held no fear of man nor mystic. If they were hunting him...

_"Poppa..."_

Leander dropped his head back down with relief. It was a child afterall. The animals could produce a crying or screaming noise, but they couldn't imitate speech. Relief gave way to disgust as he laid there, listening to the shrill sobbing. A full day of running through these blasted mountains and he was - of all things - roused by a child crying. He groaned in vexation and rolled to face the wall.

_"Poppa...!"_ Though far in the distance, the crying was steadily growing louder and more persistent.

He surged to his feet in a temper and snarled his contempt as he took up his arms, discarded armor, and pack. The brat's encampment was about to make acquaintances with a very unexpected guest. As he was tugging the straps of his quiver tighter, the child's penetrating scream echoed across the mountain.

Narrowing his eyes, he slipped up the crumbling staircase that would take him up to the only tower still standing to get his bearings.

The well-built staircase was tightly wound and steep, but there was no way he could take it very quickly without loosing his footing on the rain-slick treads. He knew the intention behind the design was to foil an assault, but it left him frustrated nevertheless as he was forced to slow his pace. At length, he reached the tower's peak. From here he could see nearly the whole mountainside and all the way out to the vista of ashen froth on a dark, angry sea. The wet, blustery wind whipped his hair and caught in his beard and in the fur of his vest. He planted his feet wide and stuck his head out one of the crumbling windows, absorbing every sound he could hear.

Satisfied that his destination laid somewhere between the ruins and the sea, he took the stairs down as swiftly as he dared.

He left as much gear as he felt he could in his comfortable nitch in the ruins and crossly stepped outside. The Highwayman gave one last look back inside, hoping vainly that the child would stop its incessive bawling now before he left so he could go back inside and continue sleeping.

_"Poppa...!"_

It certainly wasn't looking like his prayers would be answered. Leander blew a snarl through his nose and rubbed his temples before setting out. Once more he found himself stalking through the forest, though he much preferred being the hunter yet again rather than the game.

"Poppa...!"

The sea was looming closer and closer, the scent of salt water and blood filled his nostrils. The child's cries echoed as they struck the rock face. Perhaps a family of fisherfolk, out catching their morning meal?

Leander gasped against the furious wind as he scanned the sea, searching for the vessel. His saturated auburn hair lashed sharply against his face, the occasional strand catching in his beard. He could barely hear the youngster crying anymore, but the wind clearly made up for it. The former knight couldn't see the vessel, though it was probably out there - somewhere.

"Quiet your brat!" He screamed wrathfully down at the water. He held his breath, listening for a reply against the howling wind.

He spied a malevolent, dark shape swimming around the rocks. _'A Heckran.'_ Interesting to note, but he had more important things on his mind - such as sleeping.

"Did you hear me? Quiet your brat!" Leander screamed once more.

Finally, a small, pasty white hand appeared in answer between two very large boulders and groped frenetically at the edges as though searching for his rescuer.

_'This is impossible.'_ Nikarah thought to himself. First he had to deal with those fools from Guardia, then he was awakened by someone's spawn bawling, and now this. Another scream echoed off the rocks as a ridge of bony spikes broke the surface momentarily and then submerged once more.

"Come get me! It's gonna get me" The tiny voice whined pitifully even as the Heckran collided with the rocks like a juggernaut, trying to reach its prey.

_'Good.'_ Leander thought peevishly. He then immediately felt slightly guilty. The mystics had killed his baby brother years before during the war and it appeared another mother would soon loose a child. On the other hand, it was Guardia's chore to protect its populace from the dangers of the world - no matter how incompetently.

The mystic reared tall and swiped furiously at the rocks, obviously frustrated. The child shrieked in alarm and returned to crying with renewed vigor.

Nikarah groaned and scanned the horizon for some way down to the shoreline. Silencing the child equated with sleep and that meant killing the beast. Of course, a supply of jerked Heckran meat would hold him in supplies for some time.

"How the deviltry am I going to get down there?" He muttered to himself and began calculating his odds of managing to drop the beast with his long bow. He unslung his bow from its home on his quiver and strung it. If he could catch it in sides for a lung shot, the chance of success would be high. They might have thick skins and bony plates, but gravity was a powerful ally. If the General's tales could be trusted, the great knight Cyrus had killed a Heckran once in this manner. He snaked his hand behind him and felt the fletchings for best arrows. Leander finally felt the arrow he was looking for and withdrew the last of his war arrows he had stolen long ago from Sandorino's limited armory.

Leander sidled sideways, lining up his shot for when the Heckran resurfaced. He would need to compensate for the wind, but he was used to the Denodoro winds. If he was successful he would kill the creature quickly, if not immediately.

He drew his bow and waited.

It reared and swiped at the rocks, but its thick arm was in the way. Patiently, he waited, watching the dark shape circling in the water. Second time was better, but not clean enough for him. On the third attack, it speared down into the rocks and gave Leander the shot he wanted.

"... Sweet as pie." Nikarah rumbled with satisfaction and released the bowstring. The arrow practically sang as it sliced through the air and found it's mark between the Heckran's ribs.

It arched backwards, roaring with fury, flung itself into the waves, and vanished into the ocean. Leander cursed his luck and then realized the child had fallen silent.

Nikarah palmed his waterlogged hood and pushed it back as he gazed down at the rocks where the child had been. Blood was seeping from the rocks, the rain washing it down to mingle with the surf reddened with the monster's blood.

He realized someone was behind him an instant before he heard a cold, deep chuckle.

Leander Nikarah, the infamous killer of three of Guardia's finest, had only a split second to see a blue skinned hand and silver blade slash in a vicious, downward stroke. White brilliance rose up from the ground and arced in a searing sine wave that burned him as it flung him forward.

For an instant he was flying. His form gliding above the rocks like the ocean birds that cried as they traced the faint line that marked the boundary between water, earth, and sky. He caught the briefest glimpse of a small, fair-haired boy reclined deep in the crotch of a rock, his shirt and breeches plastered to his skin and dripping blood. The child was gazing up at him as he fell; his round, angelic face waxen above his devastated chest of shredded flesh and splintered ribs.

To his credit, he never had a chance to scream as he fell to earth. His eyes remained fixated on cliff where the mystic warrior stood even blackness opened beneath him as though the gates of Hell had yawned wide to admit the fated warrior.

_

--------------  
-: Glossary :-

  
_  
**Kingsweave  
**Tightly woven, high-quality, chainmail armor renowned for its strength and exorbitant cost. Since it was so expensive, generally only the exceptionally rich (kings) could afford it.

**swag  
**Slang for "Stolen Goods."

**liripipe  
**A long trailing point on the back of a hood of a Medieval cape, cloak, mantle, etc. that was usually thrown over the shoulder. 


	3. Breathe

**_

Legacies of the Fallen  


_**By Jasson Knight  
_  
**Chapter Two  
**--------------  
-: Breathe :-  
_  
_08 November, 11980BC  
The Tundra, North of Black Harbor  
_  
The man once known as Magus stirred and awakened just as the first breath of the Black Wind whispered between the boulders. It settled heavily over him; weighty, mordant, and cold, the familiar sense of dread filling him like the first lungful of air inhaled from a freshly reopened tomb. He lifted his head slowly, scarlet eyes blazing as he scanned the surrounding area suspiciously from within the voluminous hood of his black, woolen cloak.

Dawn had yet to break and only the crisp pinpricks of starlight marred the blackness of the late autumn night. A dusting of rime had settled upon his shoulders and hood, glistening faintly in the darkness. He slowly straightened and gripped the shaft of his Doom Sickle, moving his back away from the boulder and the comfortable depression his body had warmed over the night. No longer sheltered, the cold bit into his joints and the first - almost electric - twinges of pain ran up each of his vertebra as the full brunt of the piercing wind caught him full in the back.

In the shadows and quiet of early morning, the tundra was an otherworldly landscape of boulders and vitreous black rock that the force of Lavos' emergence had melted to slag. No plants grew upon them and it would be nearly five centuries before any would. The bitter wind rippled through the frost covered tundra grasses like ocean waves and whispered through the stunted plants still clinging to life before the onslaught of winter. Only the wind and the far-away bellows of innocuous and herbivoric Lesser Beasts reverberated across the plain.

The former prince stepped backwards until he was once again sheltered by the rock and leaned back into his comfortable indentation. He half- closed his eyes and rested as best he could as his heart pounded within his chest as the Black Wind gained strength.

Sleep never came easy to Janus. Even when he did sleep, it was ephemeral and seldom deep. It was a result of more than forty years worth of experience and his scars told the dark stories of those said experiences. Instead, he frequently utilized an enchantment he had learned ages ago. With it, he could arrest his body in a limbo where he had no need for the requisites of the living. He was neither entirely alive nor dead, but merely existing in a state of pseudo-vampirism. Even then, he was still wary of attack.

He had selected his camp site strategically because of this. Utilizing the tightly packed boulders he could restrict any approach to only from above or from the east. In order to exploit the former an enemy would need to be capable of flight and there were precious few left that could. Out of all the flighted beasts that existed during the reign of Zeal, only the nearly extinct Gargoyles that had once inhabited the Mountain of Woe remained.

At his feet, a groan escaped his son, Thalin. The younger wizard slept reclined against the boulder, huddled deep into the ample folds of his own cloak, head lightly resting against the haft of his inverted scythe. Its head rested against Thalin's hip and the shaft braced securely in the hollow of his crossed arms. Faint, incoherent protests escaped Thalin's wan lips as he shivered in his sleep as placid dreams were perverted into inhuman nightmares. He too was sensitive to the Black Wind, he always had been.

Thalin had come to him nearly eighteen years ago, tossed into the voids between space and time to eventually land in his path. At first he had rejected the child, discarded him into the care of others while he searched for his beloved sister. Against his very nature, he eventually came to more or less accept the boy. Perhaps, in a way, Janus had eventually come to see a part of his sister and possibly even himself in the little boy. He was as lost in time as he was, afterall. Thalin's version of Zeal was extinct, a lost dimension vanished under the merciless crush of reality. In fact, his entire time stream had ceased to exist in a horrible instant and he had grown up with a man not technically his father. The only way he remembered his former home was as a hazy "once upon a time" in a when that would never happen.

Then his slight body shuddered unexpectedly as though in a fit; once, twice, and then awoke with the final twitch. Thalin inhaled so harshly that he hissed as he lurched to his feet, knocking over his scythe as he whipped round in futile search of his otherworldly assailant. Magus turned as he swayed unsteadily and gripped his bicep firmly to steady him, listening to the hitch in his breath. After some time Thalin breathed deeply, shrugged from his grasp, and slipped around the massive rock to relieve himself. The sorcerer sighed and gestured towards the fallen weapon; itshuddered for a split second and then leapt to meet his grasp.

The weapon was formerly his, an elegant scythe named _Hurricane_ that had served him well during his quest to defeat Lavos. It belonged to his son at the present and bore evidence of this in the form of subtle embellishments. The old weapon waswell-made and impeccably balanced; it would serve him well for many years to come. Scythes had fast become Janus' favorite as a youth, and thus, he wasn't surprised when his son followed suit. With the mass primarily located at the head, it was simple to initiate the scythe's movement and then allow gravity and momentum to guide the blade through to a devastating attack. However, there was the troublesome issue that neither his adversary or he himself always knew where the head was going to end up. That was why he preferred weapons of enchanted or elemental design overall, like _Hurricane_, and metal shafts to wooden for the purpose of parrying or blocking. Enchanted scythes were more predictable and safer, so the wielder could concentrate on slashing or rotational movements and not concern himself with where that razor sharp cutting edge was in relation to his body.

Thalin returned a few minutes later, his pale eyes still apprehensively scanning their surroundings. Janus withdrew a small packet of rations from his pack and handed them to the younger man. They needed to break camp immediately and continue their journey north to Meriddea. It was never a good to sense the death omen in a expedition like this and even worse to remain in one place once it was sensed. He didn't know the cause or subject of the Black Wind, but he had been sensing it more and more in the recent past. Something was imminent, that much he knew. He ordinarily would not have been overly concerned. Black Harbor housed the survivors of the royal guard as well as some defected troops from the remnants of Dalton's private army. They had the equipment and the training to be an effectual defense against most anything in this era that could threaten the town and anyone who lived within its walls. Although, from his experience, it was only effective if they were actually present. With the bulk of the Black Guard sent off after something or another for the interim, the town was too vulnerable for Magus' liking. Meriddea was too small and remote to appear on most maps and was primarily a fishing village with a few enclaves of reclusive scholars. Hopefully its seclusion would serve as defense enough until he better knew the nature of the threat.

"Are you ready?" Magus asked, stepping up into the air. He drifted backwards a few feet as he slung the carrying strap for his Doom Sickle over his shoulders.

With a nod, Thalin took a rapid pair of steps and shed the constraints of gravity as well, bending his right leg somewhat to help balance himself against the weight of his own scythe.

Within moments they were skimming the first diaphanous layer of forming ice clouds and quickly gaining altitude. Far beneath them, the boulder-strewn tundra scrolled placidly onward in darkened hues of green, black, and gray that was occasionally spotted with tiny, riotous specks of yellow that shown brightly even in the darkness. Daybreak arrived in hues of red and gold over the eastern horizon as they were passing over the crags that marked the beginnings of the Fjords of Dun Teoddry. On the opposite horizon, amid the softening hues of violet, indigo, and cobalt, a knifes' edge of inky darkness marred the heavens at the point where the sea met the sky.

"- Red in the morning. . ." Thalin's voice sounded rough and out of breath when he broke the silence they had enjoyed for so long during a brief rest. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around himself as they rose and fell with the air currents.

Magus nodded in solemn agreement and gestured forward silently.

They altered their direction to fly high over the coast to trace the path their comrade's would travel, but their pace and altitude gradually dwindled as the younger Zealian continued to tire. As dawn progressed, the sky brightened until it burned as though it had been painted with blood and fire. The flicker of lighting dancing upon the growing clouds raging on the horizon was enough to give Thalin a momentary second wind and they resumed their previous velocity. Within a half hour, the ever-increasing wind had quickly stolen his energy and slowed them once again as they were forced to battle their way onward. Visibility decreased in the noontime hours as the sky began to fill with clouds blown off the main storm. By then the entire western horizon had filled with heavy billows and the vivid filaments of lightning had become visible even at lower elevations. The Black Wind persisted throughout the day, neither escalating nor diminishing. It sat there, festering somewhere behind their eyes like an infected wound.

As the sun was setting and the violet twilight gloom washed across the earth, Magus began to inspect the ground for a suitable place to make camp for the night to wait out the storm. It was then he spotted the prone figure on a sea-polished slab of lava rock, his arms outstretched as though he were a specimen on a dissection tray. Dark robes traced with silver draped about his body, frozen to the stones by a pool of his own blood. The swirl of Black Wind surrounding him told of his imminent demise.

Without much thought, the Janus descended rapidly in a billow of cloak, knees bent to absorb the landing, and dropped lightly at the man's side. Thalin followed swiftly, but landed several yards away and skidded to a sloppy halt.

Janus had adopted the habit of examining any corpses he found or interrogating newly discovered survivors for information regarding the last days of Zeal and Schala's fate years before. Nevertheless, the gravity of the man's visible wounds prompted Magus to immediately reconsider his decision. The man's left leg appeared to be the primary the source of all blood, though there were many others of the same horrific nature. Yellow fragments of bloody bone protruded through the side of his heavy woolen leggings and dark rivulets half frozen to the material oozed leisurely downward to join the icy, crimson slick. His was torn down to his ribs, the bloody, yellowed flesh hanging from the wound through a rent in the fabric like melted wax, and his gloves had been ripped away by something, the tips of his fingers down to the second knuckle were the unnatural pasty color that indicated frostbite. There were other wounds too, abnormal ones, as though he had been flung against something unyielding like a toy thrown by a petulant child. He traced his eyes down the man's fine robes colored a deep, marine blue with embroidery depicting ocean waves and felt himself grow pallid. The repulsive stench of Lavos' energies still pervaded every pore of the dying man's body. Swallowing, he tugged the glove from his right hand, and used his index finger to probe under the high, tight collar to find the man's pulse. Satisfied that he was still alive and abruptly seized by an almost scientific and morbid curiosity, he began to gingerly feel around the man's head for the mask's fasteners.

"Is... he alive?" Thalin asked softly, clutching his cloak tight to his body with his free hand as he lightly stepped from rock to rock, his scythe bobbing as he walked. He had taken time to remove _Hurricane_ from its sling on his back and to remove its sheath. The wind ripped at the cuffs of his heavy, dark, woolen trousers and the hem of his cloak, while whipping the delicate, silver and quartz crystal ornaments of his boot chains.

"Yes." The wizard gave up on his attempt to remove the mask for the moment and frowned deeply at the man's garb as he put pressure on the ruined leg via magic. With a brief, arcane word, he affixed his gravity altering spell so it would retain the pressure for him. He felt disturbed and slightly frightened, the emotions of the ten year old child he had once been rising unbidden from that secret place deep with him. All those who had worn those robes in Zeal had been killed over well over twenty years ago. If he had not traveled the corridors of time, he would have considered the fellow Zealian's presence an utter impossibility.

Thalin shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he solemnly regarded both men. He opened his mouth to comment and then clamped his lips back together as he then thought better of it. "Umm... Father?"

"Yes, these designs are Zealian." Magus confirmed loudly as he rose to his feet and regarded the fallen sorcerer as he slipped his worn leather glove back on. His mind made up, he shrugged off the shoulder straps of his heavy pack. "He's a Tidal Lord - from the construction of the Undersea Palace."

"Actually. . . I was going to say. . . We should find shelter quickly." He gestured with the point at the top edge of his scythe's head. The leading edge of the storm was closing on them with breathtaking swiftness and while he had been examining the man, the clouds had spread rapidly to fill most of the visible sky. As if to punctuate his statement further, a roll of thunder echoed in the distance as the wind ominously died.

It was enough to jolt Magus out of his thoughts and into far swifter action. He lowered his hand to the point where the mask met the heavy, insulated hood and snapped his fingers. A gout of dazzling sapphire flame blossomed from his finger tips and looped through the seam, melting the connection between them. He carelessly tossed the mask away, drew his dagger, and began to cut away portions of the man's robe to probe his more grievous wounds. His son knelt beside him, opened his father's discarded pack, and removed a Full Tonic, several rolls of bandages, and salve from their medical kit.

His father had always been pale, but he looked almost ashen as he worked on the man. Given what he knew of the Tidal Lords and their fates, it was little wonder why his father looked so pasty. He glowered up as a small swarm of biting, dragonfly-like insects began to form, attracted by the scent of blood. He snapped his fingers as his father had done moments prior, thrust his hand upward at the first cloud of descending insects, and reduced them to ashes with a burst of golden fire. "I hope wherever Lazuli is - she's smiling." Thalin muttered dryly as he watched his father tear a large strip from the lining of his cloak to fashion a tourniquet to stanch the bleeding in the man's mangled left leg.

Magus wasn't about to confirm or dismiss the statement, instead wrapping the length of cloth around the man's leg and tied the scabbard for his dagger into it. The wizard slowly spun the wooden sheath, tightening it until it cut off the blood supply to the leg. "Secure it." He grunted, nodding towards the second strip he had torn from his cloak. The younger man obeyed, deftly wrapped the second strip around the leg before tying a sturdy knot around the free end of the scabbard.

"Janus, Soren - They're about to begin."

Ten year old Janus of Zeal sullenly looked up at his sister from the corner where he played with his new kitten, Alfador. From the corner on the opposite side of the room his cousin, twelve year old Soren Vishal jerked his head up with a cry of joy, jumped to his feet, and dashed to the balcony. The constant, deep thrum of the Blackbird's engines pulsed louder as they began to circle the construction site.

Sullenly, he climbed to his feet and picked up the tiny animal. He intensely disliked children his own age, but he reserved a special spot of hatred of in his heart for his cousin. He loathed him with an almost unbridled passion and yet, for some reason, he gravitated towards him. He consistently managed to be injured by or held responsible for something his cousin did or instigated. And yet, for some inane reason he still ultimately followed him around each and every time he visited. It was plainly clear that the feeling was mutual, based on the frequent torment Soren dispensed upon him. They had fought earlier, until they had inadvertently aggravated the Queen and had been separated and soundly punished.

"Janus," Melchoir turned from his spot at the rail, his voice gentle but possessing a paternal quality that continually served to infuriate the little prince. "Put Alfador into his basket. It's far too cold for him."

From his position standing on a stool beside the guru, Soren was making rude faces at him, insinuating that he thought his younger cousin was mentally lacking. Janus glared spitefully at both of them and stomped over to the blanket lined basket to do as he was told.

"Take a nap, Alfador." Janus muttered to the kitten, who mewed in protest as he fastened the woven lid shut. He then turned to join the others at the balcony overlooking the endless, frozen sea.

Schala was waiting for him, a gentle, adoring smile lighting her features as she stood wreathed in the half-light of the eternal blizzard. She held her arm out to him, beckoning him to come to him. As he arrived, she laid her hand on his shoulder and guided to her far side, as far away from his hateful cousin as physically possible.

The winds were harsh, whipping his hair wildly and tearing at the hem of his tabard and trousers. Schala draped the corner of her cloak around his shoulders to help block more of the cold from him and then winced as a gust caught her in the face. Melchoir tugged his hat lower onto his head and wiggled his mouth as flecks of spray caught in his mustache. From the stool beside him, Soren seemed oblivious to the cold and the wind that whipped the strands of his dark blue hair wildly about his head.

Janus glared at him, peevishly wondering why his taller cousin was allowed to use the stool while he was forced to ineptly stare through the spindles of the railing.

A roll of thunder brought his gaze back to the sea as the first stage of construction began.

Like tiny insects, a great ring of Zealian sorcerers floated above the ocean far below them. As one, they called upon their powers over sea and air, pushing and prodding at the dark water below them. Supposedly, they would push the seas back and hold them there to expose solid ground.

At first the seas resisted; whitecaps rearing high like outraged white stallions and striking at them with spray that turned instantly to diamond dust. It churned and roared as it swirled as they plunged a massive wall of energy downward until it struck the ocean floor with a faint, yet audible boom.

Thunder clapped raucously as they gestured sharply to their right. Janus clapped his hands to his injured ears as the wall began to spin. Unable to resist any further, the water too began to spin. As the speed increased, a dimple formed in the center and began to creep deeper.

The Tidal Lords of Zeal reacted instantly, descending slowly as they forced water that formed the sides of the huge whirlpool beyond their magical wall. Janus grew bored and retreated back into the plush comfort of the chamber to play with his cat.

Night fell and the winds increased, violently lashing them with ice and snow only to eerily die as dawn rose. However, their goal was eventually realized and the sea floor bloomed beneath their feet.

It was then the Black Wind struck with a suddenly Janus had never felt before. A strange surge of energy shot from the center of the void and struck the Blackbird. Energy arced its way up the metal and stood the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Schala gave a short, shrill gasp, and clapped her hand to her mouth as she stepped backwards. Terrified for his sister, Janus pushed Alfador from his lap and ran to her.

From far below, screamed orders echoed amid the swirling snowflakes. With a strength Janus didn't know his sister possessed, Schala gripped his arm so tightly he gasped in pain and moved swiftly backwards into the room.

"Melchoir," Janus didn't know how Schala's voice could remain so calm as the Black Wind screamed in their minds. She reflexively brushed an errant lock of her azure hair behind her right ear in a semblance of normalcy, "Get them out of there: Now!"

As though in a dream, he watched Melchoir move to leave, but then seized Soren around the waist as the boy pitched over the rail to retch violently. The guru yanked him away before he was finished, flinging him inside before bolting doors, and then running from the room. In morbid fascination, Janus watched the drops of vomit scatter in slow motion across the fine, burgundy threads of the carpet. Outside, he could hear Melchoir shouting commands to the crew.

But it was too late. As quickly as it had begun, the Black Wind vanished. Leaving only death in its wake.

The comforting, orange light of the fire filled the cavern against the harsh darkness of the tempest raging outside. The murmur of flames washing over the driftwood was almost completely drowned out by the crash and hiss of lightning and the roar of the wind but the sheltering bubble of light and warmth compensated for that to an extent. Thalin rocked back on the balls of his feet and then stiffly moved to a seated position, the remnants of his fire spell still flickering and smoking against his palms. He was wet and chilled so thoroughly that he wasn't entirely sure he would ever be warm again. In spite of this, the delicious warmth of the fire that radiated through his boots was quickly edging to the side of pain, forcing him to slide backwards further.

A profound fatigue settled upon him as he calmed and his shoulder slowly began to throb from the weight of his scythe. He was drained in all ways that he could think of and it was rapidly turning his mood sour - not that he could ever be considered a cheerful person. In addition, the Black Wind persisted even now and hung subtly on the air like the remnants of a lady's perfume. There was still a slight bit surrounding the man, but the bulk of what they were feeling was originating from somewhere more distant. He shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts before turning them elsewhere as he scrutinized his father over the increasing tongues of flame.

Janus had fallen silent after they had set the tourniquet and had not spoken since. It wasn't atypical for him, by any means. He sat facing the fire and his liquid, crimson eyes bottomless and burning with the reflection of the flames, his face both severe and impassive all at once. Thalin was well used to his father's usual icy detachment, but this went far beyond his normal moods. He knew without being told what laid beyond those eyes and how to interpret the deep furrows that had formed at the corners of his eyes, down his forehead, and around his mouth. Magus' thoughts had turned back and inward, traveling through the ghosts of his memories. He wandered the dead halls of Zeal or perhaps his castle in the Middle Ages, or conceivably even the rivers of time itself - searching for only who-knew-what.

"Who the hell _is_ he?" He was taken aback as the question unexpectedly tumbled from his lips. He held his breath nervously, watching his father's face for signs of emotion.

Janus raised his head slowly, his burning eyes meeting Thalin's own. He emotionlessly gazed at his son until the younger man turned away. His hushed voice was uneven and menacing against the noise of the raging storm, "As of this moment, none of your business."

The young sorcerer gaped, then sighed and shook his head. He discontentedly pulled his cloak tighter around his frame and retreated into the plush, shadowy creases of velvet and wool. He was reminded yet again that this man was still very much a stranger to him; a dark, foreboding man who the residents of Black Harbor still reverently addressed as the Prophet. Thalin licked his lips, his tongue pensively halting on a deep crack that tasted sharply of copper. He had never been shy a day in his life, but as always he found himself too cowed to address his own father.

He glanced at the man they had found and examined him with half-lidded eyes. In the strobe-like flicker of lighting, his sunken features stood out far too sharply. He looked like a corpse: his face possessed a deathly pallor to it, his lips tinged with blue, and his eyes sunken deep into his skull. Vivid scarlet still languidly oozed in various spots of his body and the odor of bodily fluids was strong upon the air with the subtle smell of delicate, aromatic plants beneath. Thalin's eyes settled upon the man's matted, bloody, and tangled mane of blue hair. It would be the source of the perfumes, the color produced from Zealian Royal Indigo and the fragrances of the summer harvests of lavender, sweet grass, and chamomile. His father had said he was a Tidal Lord from the construction of the Undersea Palace. Both were nebulous concepts to Thalin, since he knew them as nothing but dark stories meant to frighten disobedient children.

"Rest." Magus rose to his feet, walking past his son to recline against the wall near the path to the exit. "I'll take first watch."

Thalin watched him over his shoulder for a few moments before rising to collect his bed roll and blanket from his pack. A November storm, an unknown stranger, the Black Wind, and an uncommunicative wizard for a father - at the very least he could never declare his life dull.

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**Author's Note**

  
Ouch... this chapter has taken me a while to iron out. As usual, any and all feedback is welcome. ) Nit-picking and critical reviews of any kind are very much appreciated!

I'd like to give a huge thank you to Edwardmorte and Locuster for your constructive criticism and much appreciated feedback on my story! Also, I'd like to thank everyone at and The Chrono Compendium for your support, feedback, and wealth of information. ) All of you are awesome and I really appreciate everything you're done to help me! 


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